No
part of this book may be reproduced in any form—with the exception
of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without
written permission from the publisher, 1231 Publishing.

The
characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are
used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental and unintentional.

1231
Publishing, PO Box 77, Kallangur QLD 4503, Australia

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many
thanks to the writers who attend the North Lakes Writers’ Group.
Without other writers to discuss our work, the adventure in writing
this project would be a much lonelier one. Also, many thanks to our
constant helpers, the beta readers who follow Daeson, Synjan and
Hawke as they travel through the worlds. We appreciate that you pull
us up over the smallest detail of our final
draft. The insight you provide us is priceless. Much
thanks to David Woodward, David Strange, Nicole Hary, Sue Strathdee,
Kylie Crase, Fiona Moran and Jodie Lane.

The
Story So Far

DAESON
ACCIDENTALLY LEFT his homeworld of Kharltae by Wandering into the
cut-throat world of Trent. He was taken in by Omerri, who seduced and
manipulated him for his truth-telling and Healing abilities. Omerri’s
companion in crime, Ellis, already had a Wanderer of his own—a
Navigator named Synjan who he kept under his control, sending her on
life-risking missions to advance himself.

Synjan
and Daeson were kept apart for two years but finally met when Synjan
was shot and brought to Daeson for a life-saving revival. Soon after,
Daeson discovered that his relationship with Omerri was based on
deception. He left the city and Omerri begged Synjan to bring him
back.

Instead,
Synjan took him to the Portal and bid him farewell. On a whim she
grabbed his hand, and they entered the world of J’Bdyamn together.
They stayed with the gentle Mukake peoples, who helped them survive
in the tropical environment. While Daeson and Synjan learnt how to
adapt, they also learnt about one another. During their stay,
hostility was brewing with a neighbouring tribe, and when the Mukake
went to war, Daeson and Synjan escaped for the Portal.

Unbeknownst
to them, Ellis chose to pursue them, both personally and through his
contacts—using an Authority Hunter, Hawke Donovan, to find them.
Hawke had only just arrived home to his long-time girlfriend Brita
but left her to fulfil the favour.

Hawke
departed for Femme and ingratiated himself with the Authority Spies
before being sent on a mission to penetrate the female-dominated
civilisation. He was forced to remain with his contact, the Wanderer
Clairvoyant Jinwa Woy, who made predictions about his success but
ultimately abandoned him to the Femme Enforcers when they arrived to
arrest them both.

With
Ellis chasing after them through the Wanderer Portals and Hawke using
all of the Authority resources available to him, Synjan and Daeson
will have to be clever to stay ahead of their pursuers.

Chapter One

The
Round of Pillars

Before
his eyelids fluttered open, before he was
dazzled by a sun that warmed his skin, Daeson was reminded of his
first two Wanders. He heard the chirping songbirds of Gredann’s
city garden and smelled the perfume of J’Bdyamn’s jungle. Along
with scent and sound came the peace of using the Portal.

He
couldn’t trust it. Wandering was dangerous, even discounting the
threat of Authorities. The Portal was a seduction of worlds awaiting
discovery, a promise of a better life. It could easily
become an obsession; chasing a fantasy instead of living the reality.

Reality
was the cool and gritty surface that his cheek
rested upon.

Daeson
opened his eyes and sat up, awkwardly extracting his arms from his
backpack. Beside him, Synjan lay on her side, curled and peaceful.

They
were in the middle of a circular concrete slab. Lines were etched
into it, forming an intricate pattern he couldn’t make out whilst
sitting in it. The boldest lines travelled from the centre and ended
at the columns that surrounded them. Daeson blinked at them.

The
columns were tall—roughly twice his height. They were transparent,
made from glass tinted different colours. There were twelve in all,
positioned an exact distance apart. Inside each of them was a
floating statue—a peculiar choice of artwork. Daeson wondered if
the columns lit up to make a rainbow at night. During festivals in
Gredann, he’d been impressed by the firebarrel flowers that lit up
the night sky in pretty patterns—he’d watched them through a
window, listening to the booms that followed each display.

Daeson
shook off the last of the Portal’s influence and stood, wiping his
hands on the seat of his shorts as he looked around. The pattern
etched into the ground was a many-pointed star. Beyond the paved
disc, manicured grass stretched as far as he could see. Clusters of
pink and orange trees lined a snaking path to a distant white
building. It looked like several towers of giant toilet rolls stacked
together.

Movement
in the pillar closest to him captured his attention. Bubbles had
disturbed the statue of the woman within, causing it to slowly spin
around. He was curious about what painted face it had. Goosebumps
prickled his skin when he saw the statue’s open eyes. They were too
realistic to be fake. He was looking at a corpse. What kind of world
embalmed their dead in pillars of coloured liquid?

Synjan
moved to his side, facing the woman in the turquoise pillar.

“Do
you think this is a cemetery?” he asked. She
couldn’t see the patterns of those whose lives were extinguished,
but she might know the reason behind the strange
display.

“They’re
not dead. There’s also another person below each of them, in
the ground.”

“How
can she not be dead?” Daeson whispered, staring at the open-eyed
woman now slowly turning her back. She didn’t look like she was
holding her breath.

“I
don’t know. Her pattern is the same as deep
sleep. The ones below us are all male.” Synjan briefly touched his
arm, getting his full attention. “The men are beneath the women.
We’re obviously on Femme.”

She
sounded excited to know where they were but her choice of words
confused him. Why was it obvious that they were
on Femme because ‘the men were beneath the women’? Synjan was
saying something about many solid patterns, but he wasn’t
listening. On the previous world of J’Bdyamn, she’d described
Femme as a slave world and said he wouldn’t like it. He’d
envisioned the mistreatment of people, of the rich controlling the
poor, of allowing others to go hungry while food
was plentiful and of an imbalanced society. He’d thought slavery
was about being indebted. Had he misinterpreted? Something heavy
formed in the pit of his stomach as he unfolded the meaning of ‘men
beneath the women’.

“Are
all men slaves here?”

He
startled her out of mapping—he felt her presence draw
back sharply. She gave him a look that sat awkwardly upon her
face—a cross between distaste and sheepishness.

“To
the women. Yeah.”

“What
does that mean?”

“It
means women are in charge. I guess I should pretend I own you?”

He
felt a spike of anger surge through him, ambushed by her deception.
Had Synjan purposefully kept that information to herself? Had she
believed he might have chosen not to Wander if he knew what was in
store for him?

“That
detail would’ve been nice to know before we landed,” Daeson
growled.

“I’m
sorry, I should’ve realised.”

She
sounded genuinely apologetic, and the truth of her statements quelled
a portion of his anger. He couldn’t let it all go. He was
unprepared and it was her fault.

“At
least we know where we are. What should we do now?” he
asked through stiff lips.

Synjan
frowned up at him, taking a breath and opening her mouth before she
closed it and glanced over her shoulder. “Two women are coming.”

He
turned and watched their approach. They wore matching ankle-length
dresses with wispy pink and purple ribbons that flowed behind them as
they walked. They both also wore a band of blue-tinged glass wrapped
around their eyes. Daeson was relieved to see nothing in their hands
and, as they got closer, he noticed they were smiling.

Synjan
stepped forward to put herself in front of him like she had in
J’Bdyamn. No doubt she had the absurd notion she was protecting
him. She was better qualified, but everything in him hated the idea.
The feeling only intensified when he realised that it was his place
now. He was supposed to belong to her.

Fighting
a torrent of emotions down, Daeson resisted the urge to step up to
Synjan’s side. The women stopped a short distance away and held up
their empty hands in a gesture that he accepted as peaceful. One of
them was senior to the other—she had streaks of silver in her hair
and carried herself importantly. She said something in a language
Daeson didn’t know and then translated.

“Welcome
to Demkoi. Do you speak Authoritan?”

“Yes,”
Daeson said.

“Demkoi?”
Synjan asked, alarmed.

“You
might know our world as Femme. That is the Authority name for it,”
the woman answered. “My name is Chien and my colleague here is
Lydette.” Chien gestured at the younger woman, whose smile
broadened.

There
was a natural pause for them to respond and Daeson took grim
satisfaction in introducing them. “I’m Daeson. This is Synjan.”

“Why?”
Daeson demanded, unwilling to blindly follow
anybody. Synjan had insisted that he shouldn’t ignore his talent
for truth. Since he’d been blinded by assumptions, he would have to
practise using his talent proactively and directly.

“We
wish to take you to the waiting area and replenish your supplies.”

Synjan
glanced at him for verification. He nodded. It wasn’t a lie.

“Okay,”
she agreed.

Daeson
was disheartened to enter yet another world where Synjan would be
accepted while he was merely tolerated.

Synjan
picked up her pack and shouldered it as both women gave Daeson
disapproving stares. Perhaps he was supposed to hold everything? Too
bad. He was gratified by their displeasure and ignored the glares.

“We
will place you in separate waiting rooms,” Lydette told Synjan.

“No,
we’ll share a room. Thank you,” she
insisted.

The
women bowed compliantly and ushered them down the path that led to
the toilet-roll building. He wanted to thank Synjan, but with her
walking ahead of him, he lost the impetus. Instead, he admired the
strange hues of the trees and listened to an intriguing mechanical
hum coming from beyond their destination. He didn’t know what it
was and figured he would have to see it to make
sense of it. As the building loomed closer, Daeson could see it was
built from tall white panels that slotted together to give a circular
impression at a distance, but it wasn’t
actually round.

He
wondered what kind of room the women would have put him in if Synjan
hadn’t said she would share. Would it have had bars? Were men kept
in cages? Would he have to wear a collar and leash? He knew nothing
about this world and there were no men around
for him to observe.

“It’s
pretty here,” Synjan said as his strides brought him close to her.

“Do
you mean for a slave world?”

She
blinked at him. “You’re mad I didn’t warn you.”

He
stifled a biting reply. He was upset, she
knew he was upset and why, so there was no point
taking it further.

They
arrived at a white door. It was framed neatly in the building and
would have gone unnoticed, except for the path that led directly to
it. Daeson thought it would act like an ordinary door, requiring a
push to open. Instead, it slid sideways into the wall. It reminded
him of the fancy glass doors that belonged to the shops Omerri liked
to frequent. She’d taken him along on her shopping trips until he’d
eventually grown bored with complimenting her on each outfit she
tried on.

They
stepped inside a beige corridor salted with more white doors. These
doors were framed differently and didn’t slide open until Chien
approached one and moved her hand in front of it. Apparently, these
doors only opened for people who waved hello.

When
they entered, Daeson wasn’t impressed with the room even though its
size was generous and its ceilings high. It was too stark, and
without colour or character. Three doors lined the right-hand wall,
and shallow pieces of furniture dotted the room.
The most interesting item was a rotating abstract sculpture that
water spouted from. He would’ve thought it a fountain and merely
for decoration, but there were four drinking glasses set on a flat
platform at the top.

“Is
that for drinking from?” Daeson asked, pointing at the water
feature.

Once
again, Lydette boggled at him. Her surprise annoyed him. Even though
this was a world with male slaves, she should understand that he
wasn’t one of them, and it was ridiculous for her to be shocked by
his behaviour. It wasn’t any better when Chien answered his
question—once again to Synjan.

“The
water fountain is for drinking. This is the main room. The door
here,” she gestured to the first door in the
side wall, “leads to a kitchenette and eating area. All of the
supplies you find within are yours to use or take. Here we have your
bedroom.” Chien strode to the next door and waved hello. Through
the open doorway, Daeson could see a large bed without sheets. “We
expect your diplomat to arrive tomorrow.”

“Our
diplomat? What’s that for?” Synjan asked.

Lydette
interjected with imperfect Authoritan. “She come
to ask, you stay or you go.”

There
was a deep frown on Chien’s face before a
tight smile took over. “I beg your pardon. The purpose of your
diplomat is to ascertain your wishes. To see if we may fulfil them.”

Daeson
wasn’t comfortable with Chien’s explanation as there was a niggle
of untruth within. Lydette’s declaration had been sincere, but she
was unable to communicate subtleties.

“Synjan,”
he said quietly, wanting to talk to her before she agreed to
anything. It was strange to be offered things like food and supplies
without requesting monetary payment in return. These women wanted
something from them, and he found it unsettling.

His
internal suspicion was reflected in Synjan’s face. “We’ve just
arrived. How do we know what our wishes are going to be?” she
queried.

“You
will be presented with the workings of our world and the role you
would choose for yourself within it. The diplomat will have more
information when she arrives.”

“So
I would choose to be a slave?” Daeson challenged. The answers
sounded prepared and vague. He didn’t like the direction of this
conversation but felt like he didn’t have
permission to voice his concerns. Synjan was the only thing between
him and imprisonment.

Spots
of pink flared on Chien’s cheeks as she glared at him. In contrast,
the other woman, Lydette, looked everywhere except at him.

Synjan
laughed, drawing everyone’s attention. The greeters looked dismayed
by her reaction. Even though Daeson was
confused, a spiteful part was pleased that Synjan had upset them
somehow.

“As
long we get to choose,” Synjan said, giving him a pointed look. He
was surprised by her statement. How could she believe they would be
allowed to choose anything? He hadn’t told her they’d lied
but even without his talent, he’d expected her to be more
suspicious. He was grateful for her desire to continue Wandering, for
otherwise she might become enchanted by a world where women ruled
over men. It would certainly be a safe place for
her to live.

Chien
pointed stiffly towards the third door at the far end of the room.
“Behind that door is your bathroom, where you may shower and ready
yourself for your distinguished visitor.”

“Ready
ourselves?” Synjan asked, her tone wary.

“There
are clothes for each of you in the bedroom closets. Long dresses for
the women, short for the men,” Chien explained. “You will not be
permitted to travel through our world in non-traditional wear. It
would declare you to be… Wanderers.”

Daeson
had been about to question their intention to give him a short dress
but the way she said the last word caught his attention. It had been
strangely breathy. He got the impression that Wanderers were held in
high regard, yet they’d disregarded him and his opinion at every
opportunity. It made no sense.

A
moment of group contemplation was broken when Lydette leant over to
quietly say something to her superior. A furtive response came
and they both stared at Daeson.

“Well,
that’s rude,” Synjan declared.

“Apologies,”
Chien said, her tone unapologetic. “We were trying to decide what
talent your partner has. We are having difficulty reading him. Is he
a Shielder?”

“Reading
him? You’re Intuits, I gather?” Synjan demanded, her Dockside
accent intensifying. Daeson had only heard her sound like that when
her emotions were riled. He was curious that another Intuit would be
able to lie—weren’t they all forced to speak the truth?

“We
are Intuits, yes. We know you’re a Navigator,” Chien murmured
deferentially. “But we cannot read Daeson correctly. There are
contradictory thoughts—is he a Shielder, an Intuit or a… Healer?”

Again,
there was that strange reverential tone. His
being a Healer must be a good thing. Perhaps they would stop
mistreating him if he had an ability they liked.
Lydette spoke to her peer in their language, prompting another
indecipherable burst of discussion. After a few exchanges
they had the grace to notice they were being watched and stopped.

“Tell
us what you are,” Chien prompted with an encouraging smile. He
shook his head, denying them the information they sought. He
considered they might punish him somehow and his heart beat faster at
the thought. Instead, Chien tipped her head. “We hope you enjoy
your stay.”

The
two women left the room and Daeson watched the
door panel slide into place. Synjan approached the door and inspected
it before waving her hands around like Chien. When nothing happened,
she placed her hands flat on the door and tried to force it open.

“Did
they lock us in?” Daeson asked.

“Uh
huh.”

“They
don’t want us exploring. They want to control
what we see.” He thought he was insightful
about the kind of world they’d landed in, but Synjan didn’t seem
bothered.

“Yeah,
but there’s a shower so who cares?”

Daeson
blinked. He watched as she dumped her bag against the wall and began
stripping while heading for the bathroom. It was so absurd, so
unmindful of their circumstances that it caused him to laugh. If they
were locked in a room that held luxuries within, why not make the
most of it? His laugh mirrored the one she’d voiced before—it
wasn’t buoyant in his chest but it made him feel a little better.

“I
guess you’re showering first,” he said, relishing the idea of hot
water stripping away the dirt and salt left on him from the previous
world.

“You
can join me if you like.”

He
watched as Synjan entered the bathroom, his expression neutral though
inside he was reeling. The door remained open and he debated whether
or not to take her up on her offer. He placed his backpack beside
hers and perched on the couch. Several times he glanced at the door
and imagined what it would be like to be with her. He’d certainly
noticed her body. She had a familiar shape, if a little too muscular.
Wrapping himself around her would be like being with someone from
home—except she was his travelling partner. If they didn’t work
out as a couple, he risked losing more than just a potential
girlfriend. When he finally decided the risk might be worth it, so
much time had passed that it didn’t seem right for him to join her.

* *
* * *

Synjan
exited the bathroom wrapped in a shimmery robe. Her skin glowing, her
smile dazzling and her hair inexplicably dry, rolling over her
shoulders and down her back in golden waves.

“You
were noisy,” Daeson said, filling in the silence. Her squeals had
made him feel like his joining her was unnecessary. She smiled
broadly at him.

“The
buttons don’t stick out like regular buttons, but you should press
all of them. Especially the blue one.” she
said with glassy eyes before disappearing into the bedroom.

With
trepidation, Daeson entered the bathroom and closed the door. The
shower looked similar to the kind he’d used in Gredann city, but
there was no handle to move left or right for hot and cold. How was
he supposed to set the temperature?

Instead
of a showerhead, small holes filled the roof and three walls. With
some experimenting, he managed to get a
warm spray trickling out of the shower
roof. He found the blue button and once he pressed it, he was
assaulted by pulsing jets of water streaming out of the walls. The
spray hit his face and he cried out, squeezing his eyes shut and
stabbing where he thought the blue button was. He was blasted by icy
water and shrieked, flattening himself against the shower wall, out
of the way. The next button he hit was ‘off’.

The
shower must have been pre-programmed to blow warm air once the water
stopped. He liked the ease of it but the water
evaporating off his skin made him
feel itchy and uncomfortable, though it explained how Synjan’s hair
had been dry.

He
used the second shimmery robe to leave the bathroom. Synjan wasn’t
in the lounge and he looked for her in the bedroom. She wasn’t in
there either so he figured she must have dressed and was
investigating the kitchen.

By
luck, he found his wardrobe first. He could tell because it held
nothing but green or blue short dresses. They varied only in size—and
some looked big enough to suit his frame. After putting a blue one
on, he found the outfit comfortable in spite of his misgivings. When
he came out of the bedroom, Synjan was at the drinking fountain.
She’d selected a lovely lavender floor-length
gown that deepened to a rich purple at the hem. Her tanned arms and
shoulders contrasted the lightness of her hair, her curved body
accentuated by the garment.

She
was breathtaking, standing beside the water statue fountain and
filling her cup from its spout. She was focussed on her task for a
brief moment, one in which his breath was
stolen. Looking at her dressed so nicely made him regretful that he’d
lost a natural opportunity to have something more intimate with her.
But deeper inside he knew his choice to keep
their relationship as travel partners was best. They were too
different. They wanted separate things. That didn’t mean he desired
her any less.

“You
look… nice,” he said, struggling for the right compliment.
Inwardly he cringed at his own poor attempt,
apologies and explanations dancing on his lips about not joining her
in the shower. When Synjan looked at him fully,
her expression changed from neutral to a pinched smile. It was a
reaction to what he was wearing, no doubt. He felt inept and
ridiculous while she was stunning. To her credit, she didn’t tease
him about his clothes.

“Thank
you, so do you,” she said. There was an expectant pause, made
awkward by the knowledge of an unshared intimacy. To her, it was a
rejection he hadn’t meant to make. To him, it
was the misgivings about the future of their relationship. On top of
that, they were on a world where they couldn’t
be equals.

“I
think this dress makes me look taller,” Synjan announced, drawing
herself up to her full, unimpressive height. She swished the skirt
for dramatic effect and looked pointedly at Daeson, waiting for his
agreement. He smiled, unable to comment in a way that would please
her but grateful she’d lightened the mood again. She snorted and
waved her hand dismissively. “You’re no good for my ego.”

He
grinned. “You don’t appear to be suffering.”

She
made a rude noise but her eyes danced. “I am starving,
though,” she continued and turned quickly so her dress flared once
more. Daeson followed her into the kitchen. They made themselves
sandwiches using ingredients they recognised before replenishing food
supplies—mostly bottles of water and grain bars—into their packs.

When
the entry door hummed open, they looked at one another and took their
gear into the central area to see who had
entered. Daeson had expected one of the two women who’d greeted
them but it was someone different instead. A statuesque blonde woman
carrying a small golden bag and wearing a multi-hued gown entered. As
she moved, the fabric of her dress changed between yellow, pink and
orange. Daeson was enchanted by the magic of it. Synjan began talking
but was cut off.

“Are
you our—“

“My
name is Rinchuku Nama. You may address me as Diplomat Nama.”

Daeson
was surprised that when Nama spoke, she looked at him as well as
Synjan. Nama glanced from the backpacks in their hands to each of
their faces. Daeson thought her gaze lingered on him and he caught a
tiny shift in her expression but he couldn’t identify its intent.

“May
I refer to you as Synjan and Daeson?” she asked.

Daeson
figured that the Diplomat had spoken to the two women who’d greeted
them to find out their names, but Synjan had a
different idea.

“An
Intuit,” Synjan guessed, sounding unhappy.

“Yes,
thank you,” Nama replied, as though Synjan had spoken well of her.
“You are a Navigator and what is Daeson?”

At
first he was disappointed to once again be relegated to the status of
‘too-unimportant-to-talk-to’ but it was soon revealed why the
Intuit was addressing Synjan.

“A
Healer!” Nama looked pleased with the information she’d plucked
out of Synjan’s head. He remembered that the two greeters said he’d
been hard to read and they’d misconstrued him as a Shielder—that
would’ve been a handy talent to have. “You have an impressive
natural block,” Nama complimented him.

“Thank
you,” he replied, surprised to be spoken to. “We were told you
would be coming tomorrow.”

“Plans
changed,” Nama said with a tight smile. In the brief pause that
followed, he took a breath to ask why the plans had changed when the
diplomat got in first.

“I
am here to demonstrate the use of the specs you will wear for the
duration of your stay,” Nama said to Synjan, then inclined her head
at Daeson. “Men are not allowed to wear them. It would look out of
place.” She unlatched her bag and pulled out two pairs of
wraparound glasses. One was tinged blue, the other was pink. She held
the pink ones out to Synjan and then slid the blue pair upon her
face.

Daeson
dropped his bag and moved closer to Synjan,
ducking so he could look through her glasses as she put them on. He
saw a small picture display on the lens with the word ‘Welcome’
across it, then flashes of words moved across the lenses too quickly
and tiny for him to read.

“I
have put them on the slowest setting, so they do
not distract you as we move through this world. If you look at
something for long enough, you will be told what it is.”

“I’m
getting information about you,” Synjan told Nama. Daeson thought
she sounded impressed. He wasn’t surprised—he felt the same way
and he wasn’t even wearing them. He didn’t
like being left out but at the same time he was relieved that he
didn’t have to wear them. He was a slow reader, only having learnt
how to recently. He wasn’t well-practised anymore.

“Are
there any books here?”

“None
that are accessible to men.” Nama’s tone sounded apologetic but
Daeson noticed that she wasn’t saying sorry.

“So
men aren’t educated here?” he asked.

“Of
course they are, in order to be useful for their
mistresses. Daeson, since you are a Healer Wanderer, you will enjoy
great privileges living on this world. You have
no need for concern.”

He
was surprised by her candour but her statement nagged at him.
Something about it had felt wrong. Synjan picked up on it as well and
identified it with a comment.

“If
we choose to stay,” she repeated flatly.

“Of
course, should you choose to stay,” Nama repeated. “Come. Bring
your belongings and we will travel in my vehicle to your
destination.”

How
does she even know what our destination is? Daeson thought. An
amused glance from Nama had him believing that ‘natural block’ or
not, she’d heard his thought.

* *
* * *

Nama’s
car was a peculiar stretched oval shape, windowed and roofed with
dark mirrored glass. When Daeson piled in after Synjan, he looked up
at the sky and then around. It was like nothing was between him and
the outside, except there were no fresh-air smells or sensation of
wind. The hum of the engine was something he
felt rather than heard and Nama drove holding two stick-handles that
she operated independently.

Once
they were out of the tree-lined avenue and onto the streets proper,
Daeson stared at the strange beauty of it all. The pink and orange
trees he’d first seen upon landing on this world were tame in
comparison to the multi-hued plants they passed.

The
few cars around them were sleekly designed; oval or wedge-shaped.
They drove under thin columns that held narrow bridges for a
different vehicle to drive on — sleek, long and white. He
glanced at Synjan but her gaze was glued to the window on her side
and he could see a line of text run along the specs she wore. He
stared at her for long enough that she turned to look at him. All of
the pictures and text that he knew was displaying on her specs went
invisible. He wondered what the specs said about him.

“This
world is so clean,” she exclaimed, then turned back to see
more of it. Daeson looked out of his own window and saw the boundary
of a city. Where before there had been a few oddly shaped buildings,
now were clusters of grand structures, both plain looking and fluidly
designed. There were many cars—though none as sleek as the car he
was in. There were many more pedestrians—not just women, but men
too. All of them wore dresses, though the men seemed to only wear
knee length while the women had a number of
different lengths and designs.

“Every
world has slaves, whether legal or not,” Nama said gently, like her
words were in danger of hurting his feelings. He wanted to argue but
her words were a truth that he wasn’t too naive to deny. He was
reminded of tales about people being traded and sold in the more
dangerous parts of Kharltae… in cities he’d never had the chance
to travel to. The bartender at the Queen—Misu—had described how
he’d escaped a smuggler intending on trading him into slavery.
Daeson considered the Techatachenti were likely to enslave some of
the women and children from the Mukake.

It
was too horrible to continue thinking about. “Why do so many of
these men look happy?” he asked.

“Because
they have a good, sheltered life as a slave. It is better than a
hard, uncertain future as a free person.”

Daeson
disagreed but Nama believed what she was saying. He looked at Synjan
and their eyes locked. By the press of Synjan’s lips, he could tell
she was holding back on a comment. While they were trapped in Nama’s
car and headed for a place they didn’t know, on a world they had no
understanding of, it was prudent not to argue.

Nama
laughed, startling him.

“I
know both of you dislike my words. It does not matter. You can choose
whether you stay or leave. I do not care.”

But
the last statement she made was a lie. She did care, and Daeson had
no idea why.

CHAPTER TWO

The
High Palace

Synjan’s
first impression of The High Palace was that of a graceful lady
arranged upon a blanket of verdant finery. As
their vehicle rolled up the circular driveway, she realised the
building was constructed in two sections. The front was a
wide and gently curved single storey that grew out of the
grass on one side, rose up into a
broad arch and then disappeared into the grass again on the
other. The sun was high, riding its midpoint, and glinted off the
textured panels of the silvery walls. The gardens surrounding the
palace were poetry in foliage, complementing the entrance with a
myriad of colours.

The
second section rose to an inscrutable height. It was a tapering tower
with many balconies, protrusions, and niches that appeared to be
moving when she wasn’t looking directly at it.
Synjan guessed it had a dozen floors but the windows weren’t
positioned in a manner that helped her define storeys
and her specs only offered the label ‘High Palace, Ning’.

Their
vehicle stopped at the loop of road closest to the palace entrance.
Diplomat Nama turned and smiled at Synjan.

“Please,
exit first,” she invited, sparing Daeson a sympathetic look.

Synjan
moved to obey, instinctively reaching for her backpack but their
escort made a noise that gave her pause.

“Let
Daeson carry your belongings,” she advised.

Synjan
sighed and got out without her gear. Seriously,
would every world aim to separate her from her stuff? She smoothed
her lavender gown and readjusted her specs, watching as Daeson
shouldered both backpacks, looking dignified in the process. Synjan
admired his broad shoulders almost as much as she respected his
composure in the circumstances—she could tell he didn’t enjoy
acting the role of a slave. It left an itchy
sensation beneath her skin also. She walked beside him as they
followed their escort towards the breathtaking entryway.

“I’m
sorry,” Synjan apologised from the corner of her mouth.

Daeson
smiled at her but it wasn’t reflected in his
eyes.

They
passed two square-jawed, heavily-muscled males, each guarding a side
of the wide doorway. The men didn’t even glance their way. Synjan
frowned at their lack of attention. Their uniforms of white dresses
and golden sandals included gold weapons hanging from their belts
but they looked unwieldy to her trained eyes. These men seemed
decorative rather than purposeful and as they
entered the carpeted foyer, Synjan’s suspicion was confirmed.

Two
women approached from their right, materialising from behind a huge,
shimmering tapestry that was hanging nearby. They wore economical
silver dresses and bore objects at their hips that looked distinctly
like guns, though bulbous by design. They also moved with a precision
that advertised their physical prowess. These were the Palace
guards. Their appraisal of the visitors was sharp
and though they exchanged words of greeting in their language with
the diplomat, their gazes lingered on Synjan.

“Sister,
be greeted,” the ash-blonde said after her conversation with Nama
concluded, stepping forward.

Synjan
looked up—and up—into her unusually-coloured violet eyes. She was
secretly pleased that she didn’t take a step back, despite feeling
like an insect about to be crushed. The woman was taller than Daeson!
It was like being approached by the Mukake cliff face in human form.

“Be
welcome,” the giantess added, inclining her head to Synjan’s
murmured response of thanks before turning to frown at her colleague.

“The
High Palace is a sanctuary,” the other said, her brown eyes roaming
quickly over Synjan before resting on her face. She had a warmer
voice, though Synjan doubted she would be obliging just because she
knew how to speak Authoritan fluently. “Our most gracious and
magnificent benefactor, High Priestess Sorcha, blessed-be-her-name,
resides here. To protect her and maintain the
tranquillity of this oasis, all visitors are required to surrender
their weapons.”

Now
Synjan did step back. “My weapons?” she frowned, looking between
the two of them. With Daeson carrying her pack, she had nothing to
hold and her fists clenched at her sides. The guards didn’t miss
the action. “How do you know I have any?”

“You
were scanned. We will hold them only for the
duration of your stay,” Brown-eyes assured her. “They shall be
returned to you as you leave.”

Instinctively,
Synjan looked at Daeson, marginally relieved by his brief nod that
confirmed the guards were telling the truth. That didn’t mean she
had to like it.

“You’ll
keep them safe?” she demanded.

“They
will be locked up, it will be fine,” Nama concurred. “You will
have to hand them over as men are not allowed to handle weapons,”
she added, glancing at Daeson before giving Synjan a pointed look
that was unnecessary.

With
a sigh, Synjan surrendered the gun from her bra first, then gestured
for Daeson to put her backpack down. She knelt and pulled out the
clothing atop her firearms, flinging a significant amount of sand
onto the plush carpet in the process. The scent of the last world
also wafted around her, tickling her nose and causing her to sneeze.
The specs flew off her face and everybody
watched them land a short distance away.

Nama
scrambled to collect and inspect them. “No harm done,”
she assured as she returned them to Synjan, who took them humbly. She
put them on the carpet beside her and pulled out more clothes and
supplies.

The
amount of sand surprised her as she’d been careful when packing
everything away. By the time she got to her weapons at the bottom,
there was a white ring of grains outlining her position on the floor.
She should’ve been embarrassed that she’d brought half of
J’Bdyamn’s islands with her, despoiling the High Priestess’
sanctuary… but she wasn’t.

Silently,
she ejected the magazines of her larger guns, assured herself the
chambers were empty and the safeties were on, then held both of them
towards the nearest guard. Woman-mountain took them without comment,
brazenly leaning over to peer into the depths of Synjan’s pack to
be sure everything had been surrendered. She spoke to her colleague
in their strange, blurred language and Brown-eyes responded.

“Your
knife and ammunition also,” she said.

Synjan
scoffed. “What good are bullets without guns? It’s not like I can
fire them using my all-powerful mind or anything.”

“Their
chemical composition is potentially hazardous. All weapons are to be
surrendered.”

Synjan
saw the futility of arguing and contented herself with sighing
heavily and muttering about how she should probably surrender
herself. She was silent by the time she stood and held out her
precariously-balanced offering of sheathed hunting knife and three
boxes of shells.

“Thank
you for your cooperation,” the giantess recited as she engulfed the
proffered objects in her huge hands. She apparently
had a few Authority phrases memorised.

Smoothing
her expression so as not to sneer at their smiles, Synjan nodded and
hastily repacked her clothes. She couldn’t help mapping the guards
as they walked away with all her material defences, feeling
vulnerable in their wake. For a world bent on empowering women, these
people certainly had a knack for rendering their visitors powerless,
regardless of their gender. The sensation of being out of control
worsened with every new encounter.

Daeson’s
hands appeared in Synjan’s unfocussed line of sight and startled
her. Again she froze as she realised she was not meant to be taking
care of her own menial tasks. Guiltily, she looked at Diplomat Nama
but their escort was distracted by a new group of Palace inhabitants
approaching. Synjan took the opportunity to squeeze Daeson’s arm
gratefully as she stood, adjusting her clothing again. Her frequent
grooming was less about presentation than it was about reassuring
herself that her lightweight dress was still there.

The
knot of newcomers were clearly not guards. They were draped in gold
finery that implied their positions as palace officials. There were
three women and one man. He remained a respectful distance behind his
companions as they swarmed around Diplomat Nama, smiling and cooing
in their language, gesturing at Synjan and Daeson without including
them in the conversation. Watching the ebb and flow of it, Synjan
deduced that these women outranked Nama and were planning to take
over from her. This supposition was proven right when Nama bowed away
from them and bade her farewell.

“Welcome,
Sister Synjan and… Daeson.”

The
accented Authoritan drew her attention away from Nama and Synjan
turned, trying to figure out which of the three women had spoken.
They were all blonde and regal, staring with
interest and polite smiles.

Synjan
pressed her shoulder to Daeson’s arm, feeling like they should
present a united front. She couldn’t recall a time where
friendliness had unnerved her so much.

“Thank
you. What happens now?”

Her
blunt question was met with appreciative titters from two of them.

“Now
I shall escort you to your quarters,” the woman who hadn’t
giggled answered.

“How
long will we be here?” Synjan queried of her.

“It
depends,” a different sister spoke while a fleeting frown passed
over the first one’s brow. It seemed one of them was tiring of the
others. The trio shuffled around and the serious one beckoned them to
follow. Synjan chose not to press the issue.

Beyond
the foyer, the High Palace was a study in tasteful opulence. The
dominant colour scheme was gold but it was judiciously woven through
the furnishings and decorations as a highlight rather than in an
obnoxious display of wealth. The front section of the building was
more significant than it looked from outside and
was filled with sweeping hallways lined with doors or curtained
alcoves and benches, settees or clusters of armchairs.
Some were occupied by conversing women that paused to smile
speculatively at them as they passed, before their native language
resumed at a more excited pace at their backs.

After
descending two sets of broad staircases and moving through a dizzying
variety of corridors, their group came to a stop in front of two
doors, side by side.

“These
are your apartments,” the serious woman said
with an inclination of her head.

“We
stay together,” Synjan frowned, pleased when she saw an expression
that might have been impatience sweep across the woman’s face.

“I
apologise, Sister Synjan, but you have separate apartments.”

“They
are very close together,” one of the others interjected.

“You
will have Phoak to assist you for the duration
of your stay,” the third said brightly and the man that had been
silently following them stepped forward.

“Mistress,”
he greeted, lowering his head.

Synjan
got the impression that his obsequiousness was a mask but his cloudy
blue eyes were free of guile once he straightened up. She dismissed
her paranoia as loss of control and new-world disassociation. It had
taken a while to settle in J’Bdyamn as well.

Phoak
wasn’t much taller than Synjan and was at least thirty years her
senior but he took her backpack from Daeson effortlessly and waited
between them while the serious woman spoke
again.

“Where’s
he going?” Synjan cut in, alarmed by the notion that Daeson
wouldn’t be with her—and equally alarmed by
the realisation that she felt incapable of being away from him for
any length of time.

“He
will be granted an audience with High Priestess Sorcha,” the woman
beamed.

“Blessed
be her name,” the other two echoed in unison.

“I’m
sure I’ll be alright,” Daeson assured her and went through the
doorway to his room. When he emerged moments later, Synjan engulfed
him in a hug.

“I’ll
wait for you,” she promised, feeling like the words sounded overly
needy. She reluctantly let him go as the women
urged his release. After he’d rounded the corner beyond her usual
sight, Synjan sighed and led Phoak into her
room.

‘Apartment’
was the better word to describe it. It consisted of a
luxuriously-appointed lounge and combined dining area, a huge bedroom
and an extravagant bathroom.

“Shall
I unpack your clothing, Mistress?” Phoak
asked, standing at the entrance to the dressing area off the bedroom.
The rack inside was crowded with a variety of Femme fashion, so the
offer was unnecessary.

Synjan
watched him speculatively, uncomfortable with having him serve her
yet intrigued by the notion that she could demand information from
him that none of the women would ever provide.

“I
think everything in there either needs replacing or a damn good
launder,” she told him wryly.

“I
will see to it,” he nodded sagely.

She
grinned at his solemnity, finding its presence when discussing sandy
underwear highly amusing. “Thank you. Are you able to answer some
of my questions?”

“Certainly,”
Phoak declared, his back straightening.

“Excellent.
Perhaps we could talk while we drink something cool?” she
hinted.

Phoak
organised for refreshments to be delivered to the room and, while
they waited for it to arrive, he helped Synjan sort her clothing.
Another slave came to collect what needed washing. Synjan watched the
way Phoak gave the boy instructions. Even though he spoke a language
she didn’t understand, she could see that Phoak held authority in
the palace. She saw the same deference in the slaves that arrived
with the drinks. They had also brought fruit and sweets.

“Please
join me,” Synjan invited, indicating the chair opposite hers as she
sat. She took a little cake from the generous platter in the centre
of the table and poured herself an orange drink she assumed was juice
as Phoak complied. A quick check on Daeson revealed that he was
sitting and conversing with a solid-patterned woman. Was he alright?
What would they make of him? Would he discuss his truth-telling
power? Would they be able to share some sort of insight about it?
With a pang, she turned her attention back to her immediate
companion. “So tell me, Phoak, how long have you lived in the High
Palace?”

“My
entire life, Mistress,” he replied.

“How
old are you?”

A
wrinkle of concern flashed across his forehead but then it was gone.
“I am sixty-eight, Mistress.”

Synjan’s
eyebrows rose. “Does every Wanderer that visits this world come to
the High Palace?”

“Oh
no, Mistress. You are among a most lucky and
elite group of Wanderers, to have been granted access to our world’s
most venerable building and its glorious inhabitants.”

Synjan
wasn’t sure what to say to his gushing so she chose not to
acknowledge it. “Why are we here?”

“Because
your… partner… is a Healer.”

She
appreciated that he went to the effort of choosing his words so
carefully. “And Healers are valued?”

“Everyone
values good health, Mistress.”

Synjan
bit back a retort and ate instead. The meal she’d had earlier had
been modest and, as the exotic tastes and textures of the new foods
registered on her unrefined palate, she realised that she was still
hungry. She didn’t want to rush, though. She was intent on
savouring every experience.

“Are
we being kept here against our will?”

“If
you wish to leave at any time, you may do so, Mistress.”

“I
can, or we can?”

“It
is not my place to answer such things,” he demurred, lowering his
gaze to the table.

“So
what can you tell me?”

“I
am a member of the highest ranked order of slaves on Demkoi,
Mistress. My knowledge is vast and varied. I am able to answer most
of your questions.”

“But
there are limits?” she pressed.

He
had the grace to nod this time. “I am afraid my information is
limited to that which is known to the Authorities.”

“What?”
Synjan blinked, disconcerted by any insinuated connection between her
and the Authorities. “Why?”

“Because
they are enemies to Wanderers and to Demkoi. They cannot be trusted.”

“I
would never speak to them.”

“Voluntarily,
perhaps,” Phoak contradicted gently.

Synjan
frowned at the implications. “Don’t they have a base here?”

“Yes.
They are kept closely contained.”

“So
you’re worried that they’ll force me to communicate what I know
if I happen to go near their base?”

“You
will not accidentally happen upon the Authorities.”

“How
do you know that?”

“If
you do not become citizens of Demkoi, you will not linger in our
world.”

Synjan’s
eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re kidding!”

Phoak
appeared genuinely disturbed by her accusation of jest. “No,
Mistress, I speak the truth.”

“You’re
telling me I won’t be allowed to explore your world, though?
Unless I choose to live here permanently?”

“That
is our policy, yes. Wanderers that plan to continue beyond our world
are assisted through it as swiftly as possible, to
protect them from Authority Hunters and our world from revealing
anything untoward.”

“So
once Daeson and I leave here, we’ll basically be escorted off the
world?”

Phoak
smiled reassuringly at her. “It is not as harsh as that, Mistress.
The Diplomat that brought you here will accompany you to the Portal
and though it will be a direct journey, it will not lack for
excitement. You will constantly be exposed to
the beauty of our world. I guarantee that the memory of it will
remain with you as you spread your message through all the worlds you
see.”

“My
message?” Synjan blinked, confused.

“That
of the true Gods.”

“The
true Gods?”

“Naturally,”
he confirmed, behaving as if Synjan should know exactly what he was
talking about. “The Authorities are ignorant, as we all know—belief
in one God?” he scoffed. “A God that has no face or name, no
purpose or betrothal to one of the higher callings as our Gods do.
Wanderers are true followers, chosen of the Gods and blessed with
powers that allow them to travel through the worlds performing their
sacred duty, rejoicing in the glory of the Gods and spreading
knowledge of their wonderment as they go.”

“The
wonderment of the Gods?” Synjan queried, wanting to be sure she was
understanding the slave correctly. His zealotry was overwhelming yet
utterly convincing. She didn’t need Daeson to tell her that Phoak
believed every word of what he was spouting.

“Of
course,” he said. “Perhaps you haven’t been travelling for long
but you would have seen the Round of Pillars when you arrived in our
world. Surely that warmed your heart?”

“Uh,
I was more curious about what it was for, to tell you the truth,”
Synjan laughed weakly.

“Each
Round is a sacred place, like a temple. They are landing points for
the Wanderers that visit our world. Each sister in stasis is an
assistant to Panthea, the Goddess of Wanderers.”

Synjan
frowned. “Wait a minute. Dea is the Goddess of Wanderers on my
world.”

“That
is another of her names,” Phoak agreed, inclining his head. “She
has many names and many true followers—all the Gods do. That is why
the role of World Wanderer is so important. Too important to risk
exposure to Authorities and tainting the purity of the message.”

“There
you go with that message business again,” Synjan muttered.

“Wanderer
women such as yourself are meant to rule the worlds. Demkoi is the
only one so far that has understood this sacred purpose but I’m
sure many more will receive the message as you travel on, speaking of
the true Gods and rejoicing in their names. Should you be shown the
mercy of our venerable Goddess and join a Fold,
you will deserve a place in the World of Worlds.”

There
were numerous things he’d said that Synjan considered querying but
the last struck a chord within her that hadn’t twanged since she’d
been a small child listening to stories upon her father’s knee.
She’d thought of them as tales of fancy, nothing more. “The World
of Worlds? I’ve heard of that! It’s some sort of perfect world,
isn’t it?”

Phoak
nodded. “A world created just for Wanderers, at the farthest edge
of the Everyworld. Blessed by the Gods—and likely inhabited by
them, too.”

“My
father used to speak of it,” she breathed in wonderment.

Her
companion nodded approvingly. “The Authorities malign it as fantasy
and condemn our beliefs as radical and blasphemous but the faithful
know the truth. On Demkoi, we are guided by our High Priestess and
given the opportunity to welcome and protect all World Wanderers when
they appear in our Rounds. It is as close to the calling as
stationary devotees such as ourselves may get.”

He
seemed partially dismayed by the role he was forced to play and
Synjan couldn’t fathom the depth of the horror she felt on his
behalf. Phoak had far more to mourn than the fact he could never
Wander but he didn’t appear to understand the scope of his bondage.

“Wanderers
always land in your—what did you call it—your Round?” she
queried.

“The
Round of Pillars. That is correct.”

“Isn’t
it dangerous that we always appear in the same place?”

“Why
would it be?”

“The
Authorities could stake them out.”

“The
Authorities have no jurisdiction here, their power is too limited for
them to pose a threat.”

“I
was exposed to this notion on the last world I was in—Wanderers
usually appeared at the same place there, too. It concerns me. It may
be safe here but I doubt it is on other worlds.”

“That
is why the Goddess Panthea looks down upon you and blesses you with
powers to help you Wander,” he said with a deeply satisfied smile.

Synjan
didn’t have it in her to keep arguing because Phoak didn’t have
it in him to understand.

CHAPTER THREE

White
Cell

White.

At
first Hawke couldn’t make out any detail… then he saw
imperfection in the whiteness; a seam. His gaze followed the seam
to a corner and then downward, to a small table and chair. The
furniture was also white. A tendril of anxiety threaded a path into
his stomach.

He
sat up, finding he was dressed in white pyjamas. Somebody either had
an obsession or harboured resentment against colour. He rubbed his
face with his hands as a memory surfaced.

Femme
Enforcers had shot him with their bubble gun and watery goop had
turned into a hard shell around his head, blocking his air. He’d
passed out. Why wasn’t he dead now? Maybe the goop could detect
when someone lost consciousness. Bitches probably thought it was a
humane way to pacify a prisoner instead of cuffing hands.

Hawke
took stock of his surroundings. One bed, one table, one chair, no
sink or toilet. Three white walls and an open space. Beyond it he
could see a room like his own, with a narrow corridor in between. The
opposite room was unoccupied, also missing its
front wall. He didn’t trust it—they wouldn’t let him just walk
out of here. Still, it would be prudent to check.

He
got up, bare feet unprepared for the cold tiled floor. He picked up
the chair and closed the distance to the open space. He’d learnt
his lesson from the shock Woy’s specs had given him when he’d
attempted to drive her car. He didn’t want to get blasted for
touching some invisible wall. He tossed the chair, watching as the
arc of its flight was interrupted by an invisible
force. The chair clattered to the floor.

Even
though he’d been expecting it, Hawke was disappointed. It was
either the cleanest tough-glass in all of the worlds or he was being
contained in a Shielded cell. Ironically, because of him, the
Authorities had rooms like this at the DOME to prevent captured
Wanderers from using their powers to escape. Hawke’s Shield wasn’t
powerful enough to have a physical presence but it was enough
to stop Controllers from taking over staff, Intuits to detect what
people were thinking or Ghosts from walking through
walls—theoretically. Nobody had managed to capture a Ghost to test
it.

This
Shield, the one that had the kind of physical force that could stop a
projectile, would’ve been especially useful to him. Could it knock
something down? Sure. Could it stop bullets?
Absolutely. His blood was thin enough to taunt him with powers he
could’ve had, with things he could’ve done, the Portals he
could’ve seen, and just enough to isolate him from both sides. No,
that wasn’t true—Wanderers would have welcomed him just like the
Authorities had. He’d made the choice not to associate with scum.

Betrayers.
The lot of them.

Even
Synjan had betrayed Ellis by running away. That was all Wanderers
ever did. Run away. Useless, fucking cowards. He
could feel anger rising inside him, hot and unreasonable.

“Hey!”
Hawke shouted, in case anybody could hear him through the Shield.
“Hey! I need water!”

He
heard footsteps, so the Shield didn’t block sound.

The
footsteps belonged to a tall, rigid woman who
wore the silver uniform of an Enforcer upon her body and repulsion
upon her face. He wasn’t too impressed with her, either.

“I
need water,” he repeated, noticing that she wasn’t holding
anything. Her hands were flat at her sides, her shoulders stiff and
slightly elevated. It was easy to see her tension, though she didn’t
look nervous. He thought it was peculiar that she wasn’t holding a
weapon—though the Shield wouldn’t let
anything through. If she was his keeper, then he was grateful the
Shield separated them. She looked unstable.

“Do
you speak Authoritan?” he asked, unable to remember the local word
for water. When she said nothing, he mimicked eating and drinking.

“I’m
going to need food and water, unless you plan on starving me to
death.”